


Who Cleared the Cookies?

by Kirrex



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Crack, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mystery, One Shot, Pack Mom Stiles Stilinski, Snarky Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirrex/pseuds/Kirrex
Summary: Stiles makes cookies. They go missing.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 272





	Who Cleared the Cookies?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fic—feedback, comments welcome. Thanks for reading!

Stiles is baking cookies. Not just any cookies, but his double-chocolate chip fudge cookies with the secret ingredient not even a werewolf’s super sniffer can detect. There’s even a pool going round that’s up to almost $300. Boyd comes closest with his guess of mountain ash, but it doesn’t matter because Stiles is never going to give it up, no matter how many kicked puppy looks Scott sends his way. Not when torturing the betas is so much fun.

Their addiction to his Scoobies (short for Scooby Snacks, as he delights in calling them), almost matches his own love affair with curly fries. Almost. The irony of chocolate's toxicity to dogs doesn’t escape him either. Never one to shy away from a good canine reference, he says as much to the hovering wolves, who immediately threaten body parts he’s both literally and figuratively attached to. “WE’RE NOT DOGS!” Isaac screeches, while the others mutter agreement in the background. Except Boyd, who just stares at Stiles balefully.

There’s one exception, however, and that’s the Alpha otherwise known as tall, dark and broody. He’ll occasionally deign to take a single cookie but makes it clear—in the same snide tone he uses to disparage Stiles’ junk food-fueled diet—he prefers a healthier alternative. And while Stiles appreciates Derek’s washboard abs (they’re wonderful to lick), he could be a little more supportive of Stiles’ formidable baking skills.

For this particular pack meeting Stiles is making a double batch—one for the pups and the other for Parrish—with extra to spare for his father’s deputies. Parrish caught Stiles speeding en route to a lunch date with Derek. Derek who turns into grumpyguts if he has to endure more than three seconds’ worth of flirting from anyone except Stiles (Stiles can flirt outrageously with him and Derek will lap it up every time). But when Stiles insinuates that Parrish could be the proud recipient of his own batch of Scoobies, Parrish lets him go with a word of caution. It’s most definitely not a bribe. Because Parrish is a respected deputy who would never stoop to swapping cookies, no matter how saliva-inducing, for a citation.

 _“And I’m hungry like the”_ Stiles belts out, opening the oven door with a bang, _“wereWOLF…”_ only to look up at a circle of expectant faces as he pulls out the piping hot tray. “Back off, you vultures,” he says forcefully, batting at them with his plaid oven mitts, “I haven’t even gotten them off the pan yet. Seriously, shoo.” Knowing Stiles is entirely capable of holding the cookies hostage until he gets some breathing room, they migrate into the den, where they promptly start fighting over the seating. Jackson ends up in the beanbag chair, which leaks tiny pellets from the time Isaac punctured it with a claw. Erica and Boyd take the loveseat since they're fine with squishing together. Scott prefers the floor pillows so he can stretch out his back, and Isaac lands the armchair. The couch? Everyone knows that’s reserved for Stiles and Derek, and Moon Goddess forbid if someone else tries to claim it.

Stiles plates a giant pile of cookies for the hungry wolves and, after packing away the rest, brings it in to them. “Let’s get this party started,” he says, dodging an onslaught of grabby paws. And because he's a sarcastic little shit, adds “Should we take roll call? Cry ‘wolf’ when you hear your name.” Derek gives him a sour look before launching into a speech about training his betas harder, which induces a collective groan. Tuning him out, Stiles sits back and observes how each pack member approaches their cookies. Boyd munches away at a steady pace, while Isaac eats furtively, as if someone's going to snatch them away. Scott scarfs them down, and Jackson examines his, frowning, before shoving two into his mouth at once. Erica wears a blissful expression…until… “Are you _drooling_?” Stiles asks incredulously. Erica just tosses her blond curls and gives an unapologetic shrug. “What can I say,” she replies with her signature smirk, “they’re mouthwatering.” Stiles sighs. One day he’ll get them domesticated. Maybe. Hopefully.

Weary from his culinary efforts—and from ~~enduring~~ _playing_ a game of “hunt the human” during last night’s full moon run—he drifts off as Derek's droning on about advanced tactical maneuvers. A couple of minutes into the lecture, Stiles is woken by Isaac scurrying off to get one of his precious scarves, which he's left in the library. Just as Stiles is nodding off again, he’s disturbed by Scott going to get a soda from the fridge. Soon after that, Erica announces that she has to “use the little girls room.” Which evidently is the little girls _and_ boys room as Boyd immediately stands up to follow her. Stiles fervently hopes they aren’t indulging in a quickie as, he knows from experience, the smell will last for _days_ —with Derek bitching the entire time. Jackson’s ringtone blares _Trillionaire_ and he steps out to take the call. Not that everyone (except Stiles) can’t hear both sides of the conversation, but it’s only proper cellphone etiquette. Stiles gives up catnapping after spotting Derek giving him the stink eye. What! A boy needs his sleep! After the meeting finally ends and he's shooed everyone out, Stiles heads to bed. He'll let Derek do the cleanup tomorrow.

Stiles groans when the alarm rings the following morning. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom before jumping on Derek for a quick makeout session. After a fast _solo_ shower (“No, Derek! I have to get to the station.”), Stiles goes to grab the cookies for Parrish and the deputies. Except they’re not on the counter where he left them. Puzzled, he heads back into the bedroom, where Derek is under the covers sulking over the lack of shower sexytimes. “Hey Sourwolf,” says Stiles, “did you stick the cookies somewhere?” Being fluent in Derek-growl, Stiles interprets the ensuing grunt as a _no_. “Then one of your puppies stole them” he says, pointing an accusing finger at the lump that is Derek, “and I’m going to find out who!” Derek pokes his head out and rolls his eyes.

Stiles calls Parrish to reschedule for that afternoon. Parrish grumbles about people not paying their debts on time and makes Stiles promise to bring him extra cookies. With his plans for the morning scrapped, Stiles plops onto the couch with a pencil and notebook and gets to work solving the Great Cookie Caper™. He creates three columns. The first is a list of suspects, the second is possible motives, and the third is opportunity.

For motives, well, Scott loves Stiles' Scoobies the way ants love honey, but he’s way too honest, and it’s a stretch. Isaac has a sneaky side, and Stiles can see him succumbing to extemporaneous thievery. Erica would do it because she likes to cause trouble, and Boyd because he goes where Erica goes. And Jackson…because he’s Jackson, and Stiles wouldn’t put anything past him. However, when Stiles gets to the third column, opportunity, he realizes each of them left the living room at some point that night, which means he won’t be able to pinpoint the culprit (he is _so_ waiting for his “gotcha” moment). The only person he excludes is Derek, who almost always scoffs when offered a cookie.

Derek is pulling a snug-fitting black T-shirt over his head when Stiles goes to show him the chart. “How is that going to help?” Derek asks skeptically. “Hmm?” Stiles replies, distracted by the glory that is Derek in tight clothing. “Oh, at the next pack meeting I’ll ask each of them about the cookies and you can be my unhuman lie detector.” Derek is suspiciously silent, which Stiles puts down to wanting to conserve his precious lecturing time. For such a tight-lipped guy, he can be surprisingly loquacious when the spirit strikes.

Stiles commandeers the kitchen to whip up another batch of cookies. When he’s done, he packs them up and brings them to the station, where he’s greeted with enthusiasm. Down the corridor someone cries, “Do I smell _Scoobies_?” followed by the sound of soles slapping against the floor. Hearing the commotion, the sheriff pops his head out of his office. “To what do we owe this pleasure, Son?” he asks. “Hey Pops!” replies Stiles. “Can’t I bring Beacon Hills' finest a thank you for their stellar performance?” The sheriff looks at Stiles suspiciously but is distracted by the cookies Stiles presses into his palm. “I can eat these?” Noah says in a tone of wonder, accustomed to the steady diet of steamed vegetables and turkey burgers Stiles ~~forces on~~ lovingly prepares for him. “Go to town,” replies Stiles, “but I’ll know if you go back for seconds.” Noah is aware that Stiles has an informant among the ranks, but he hasn’t figured out who yet. He suspects Parrish but, being an officer of the law, can’t accuse the man without proof. It’s something in the way Parrish smirks whenever he grabs the last donut.

Laying the tray of cookies on a desk, Stiles steps back to let the horde descend. Unfortunately he's not fast enough and has to battle his way through the rank and file until finally breaking free. Wild eyed, with hair sticking up and clothes disheveled, he surveys the madness in disbelief for a few seconds then heads for the door, calling out over his shoulder “later dudes.” No one looks up except Parrish, who makes sure nobody's watching before slipping out to follow Stiles to his Jeep. Stiles hands over the cookies covertly, like they’re doing a back alley deal. “No more speeding,” admonishes Parrish, slapping his hand against Roscoe for emphasis, before making his way back to the precinct.

Stiles drives home (cautiously, because he’s not ready to make yet another batch of cookies), where he finds Derek on the couch engrossed in a bodice ripper. Derek looks up and asks, “How’d it go?” Flopping down beside him to rest his head on Derek's formidable thighs, Stiles says with a shudder, “If you count being surrounded like starving wolves on a carcass as going well, then it went fabulously.” He pauses, then resumes his earlier train of thought. “I’ve been thinking, and I’m pretty sure it was Scott. He’s such a do-gooder nobody would ever suspect him. Plus, he actually went into the kitchen last night.” Derek replies with a vague “It could be…” and sticks his nose back in his book.

Stiles knows his boyfriend and recognizes when he’s being stonewalled. “You’re being awfully reticent,” he says. “You know your betas. Do _you_ have a suspect?” Derek looks furtive, and suspicion begins to bloom in Stiles’ mind. He sits up, only to notice something clinging to Derek’s bottom lip. “Hey babe,” he says, “you’ve got something on your mouth.” He reaches out and swipes it off, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. “This looks an awful lot like a Scoobie crumb,” he announces. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Derek finally lifts his head, a look of desperation on his face. “No?” he replies.

Stiles raises a single, sceptical eyebrow (an ability Derek envies). “Der-Ber, I may not have your wolfy senses, but I do recognize the detritus from my own cookies. Much as I hate to doubt my boo, I’m afraid the evidence doesn’t lie.” Derek looks conflicted before he bursts out, “All right! You caught me! I saw them on the counter and couldn't resist." He pauses for a second. "I tried, but they kept calling ‘eat me.’” “Are you sure that wasn’t me?” Stiles replies with a leer. Derek levels a look at him that promises bad things. Bad with a twist of delicious. Hmmm…he could get on board with that.

“I can’t believe you were going to let one of your betas take the heat!” Stiles says accusingly. Derek mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “If you only knew what they did with your hoodie…” Stiles makes a mental note to investigate that later. _Nobody_ messes with Li’l Red. Not if they don’t have a slow, painful death wish. But back to the subject at hand. "Werelight of my life," he says, "if you wanted your own batch of Scoobies, all you had to do was ask. Well that and apologize for maligning them. But you know I’ll do anything for my favorite Cookiewolf.”

“Anything?”

“Anything!”

“Even tell me your secret ingredient?”

“Anything but that.”

_“Grrrr.”_

A growling Derek is a sure way to get Stiles’ motor racing. Rising, he extends a hand to his boyfriend. “Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable, big guy,” he says, "and you can make up for being a lying liar." Derek scoops him up bridal style and carries him into the bedroom, where he dumps Stiles onto their king-sized bed. Good times ensue, and thus ends the tale of the cookie thief.

Oh, and the secret ingredient? A dash of Stiles’ spark.


End file.
